


Entropy of Love

by breejah



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics), Harley Quinn (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Codependency, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Insanity, Madness, Self Introspection, Sex, Sexual Manipulation, Toxic Relationship, identity crisis, mad love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23707495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breejah/pseuds/breejah
Summary: Captured and sequestered in an interview room at Arkham, Harley has a brief moment of lucid self-reflection as she realizes how far down the rabbit hole she has gone for the Joker's love.Rated E for violence and sexual themes.[Set pre-52, when their "romance" was very much alive.]
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Entropy of Love

_"She was not fragile like a flower; she was fragile like a bomb."_

* * *

It was just a routine night, following Mistah J’s directive to do a 'ride by robbing, maim, and possible torture' when it felt like the entire G.C.P.D. had shown up on the doorstep of their next location, with none other than _The Bat_ in tow.

Now, she was strapped into a white binding jacket that fit like a too-tight glove, chained to a chair, and watching tapes in a small nondescript room with two-sided glass at Arkham. Normally, she wouldn’t even sweat this part. Mistah J had contacts inside, or would be willing to shoot his way in, and she’d be rescued in a month, tops. _This_ time, though, the tapes she was watching were of _her_ , back when she was someone else – someone with normal goals, a relatively normal life, and aspirations to aide and rehabilitate the desperate and down-trodden – and she’d just arrived at Arkham, listening to Mistah J tell her about himself.

She blinked, something in her voice, in _his_ voice, too, catching her ear. She stared, eyes widening, as she watched the woman’s eagerness to believe whatever the man sitting across from her said. By God, she’d gobbled it up then, so lonely and fervent that her college days were worth something – not the seemingly permanent smear on her personal and professional reputation when Professor Collins and her became an item, graduating with honors but under speculation her degree was merited only by the capacity of her body bringing the male faculty under manipulated bliss – that her theory on curing fractured minds, _his mind in particular,_ would work. At the time, it _had_ to work – it was all she had.

 _He_ was all she had.

 _What is it they say? Hindsight is a bitch,_ she thought with a combined element of melancholy and manic laughter. She giggled, staring at her wide-eyed, naïve younger self – tripping over her own morality, humanity, empathy, and pure convictions, to prove she had a purpose.

Nowadays, of course, she had begun to see the chinks in his Mastermind manipulation tactics. It had taken years to his credit, but nevertheless she began to see them. Regardless of how she portrayed herself, how _he_ had wanted her to portray herself – and admittedly had allowed him to portray herself, never wanting to share too much of the spotlight – she wasn’t stupid. She had a PhD, for Christ’s sake, not that it would do her much good now. In any event, nowadays she was beginning to realize, more often than not, that when Mistah J – _The Joker_ – talked to her, distracted her with actions and body, that those small, tell-tale flickers of what seemed to be genuine emotion for her were few and far between. Instead, he was a fraud, with a very talented poker face, but a fraud all the same.

Suddenly furious, she rattled the chains that held her down, pinned to the chair, and snarled as she raised her head, staring at her messy complexion in the two-way mirror across from her. “Turn this shit off!” She screamed, bucking again, desperate to end this instant replay of her gullible past into what had become her present. “I don’t wanna watch this crap!”

“I thought you loved him,” Came over the crackled speaker, making her pause for a moment, her eyes flashing dangerously, then rattle her bindings more. She could hear her younger self laughing, smiling, fluttering her lashes like a damned doll for the joker on screen – _ha ha, joke’s on me guys! –_ determined to cause damage to herself if she had to just to _turn the damn thing off._

“Miss Quinn, if you’ll just---”

“ _Lalalalalala – can’t hear you! I CAN’T HEAR YOU! WHAT WAS THAT?”_ Of course, she could hear, but they just thought she was looney tunes – which, most of the time she was, existing on a manic high she refused to come down from, because that’s when reality and her saner thoughts creeped through, horrified at what she’d become because of _him_ – but she just needed it all to _stop._

_So WHAT if I exist in that manic state all the time? So WHAT if I smother my humanity, not willing to rehabilitate into society? So WHAT if he doesn’t love me and possibly never did? So WHAT if I don’t want to face the music, because to do so would break me and I’m afraid I’m more fragile that I appear to be? So WHAT if I can take Mistah J’s abuse, gunshot wounds, and violence rather than spear my heart and thoughts with saner, greener pastures? SO WHAT!?_

Suddenly, she whimpered, so tired – tired of trying to remain happy, the upkeep of her own self-delusion weighing on her – and she sagged in the restraints.

She heard the door rattle, opening, and she raised her head, eyes hopeful they’d come to shut off the video, hoping it would be a doctor, orderly, a member of the nursing staff intending to give her anti-psychotics that always made her comatose, but at least she’d be able to slip into a numbly blissful sleep, but it was none of those. Instead, it was the spark that had lit the fuse to her nightmarish reality, both beautiful and grotesque all at once.

“Miss me?” He grinned, his body dripping blood. Idly, she could hear the sound of distant gunfire. Other inmates…or his goons? Did it matter?

“Hey, puddin',” she whispered, offering him the faintest of smiles. Something in her eyes or expression must have alerted him to her mental state, because he frowned, coming towards her, swinging a bloodied set of keys. He was gentle when he unlocked her, peeled off the stray jacket, pulling her to his chest and kissing her cheeks, the top of her head, smoothing away her frazzled hair from her face, seemingly knowing that any harsh outburst would make her more lucid to what was going on and how he was once again allowing her to sink into the illusion that he still cared.

Part of her hated that she knew that. A bigger part of her hated that she didn’t seem to care.

“Tell me you love me,” he murmured, running his hands over her back, against her breasts, down the inside of her thighs. She sighed, sagging into his embrace as he anchored her against the wall, loosening his pants as he stripped her of her clothes and spread her bare, positioning his eagerness against her core once she was exposed enough for him. As always, his nearness awoke something inside her, like a drug promising sweet nirvana, the very musk of his unique scent arousing her beyond sanity, until she was wrapping herself around him, begging for his touch, feeling a sense of power knowing that _this man - the clown prince of crime -_ wanted her, if for anything than at least her body and fighting capabilities. Closing her eyes, she gave in, feeling the threads of her momentary lucidness slipping. He seemed to grow even more excited, his signature laughter tickling her ears at a fainter level than usual, but nevertheless it was there, as his cock twitched - hot and pulsing and ready - against the lips of her sex. She smiled, curling her fingers in the green olive-tint of his hair, shuddering and moaning out loud what he wanted to hear, listening to him demand again in a husky, aroused tone, rubbing the head of his cock against her slick folds, tapping roughly enough against her clit to create sparks of her anticipated orgasm inside her. _Oh yes...._

“I love you,” She gasped, just as he thrust upwards, sliding deep inside her. It was pure madness, really, that she thought it romantic – he was covered in blood, was a psychopath, had henchmen or loosened other criminals inside the asylum, who where just now, right outside their door, killing innocent civilians – but all she could think about was the way he moved inside her and held her. He was excited, aroused, _wanted her,_ and _she alone_ had the power to drive him to fuck her when usually his mind was better used in criminal activity. That _had_ to mean he loved her, _right?_

“Again,” he rasped, his words harsh but slurring, like he was high himself, engorged on something – _from the killing? From her once again giving into her maddening love for him? She wasn’t sure_ – but she appeased him, repeating the words - again and again and again- and he thrust harder, ground inside her, until she was screaming his name, convulsing in his arms and around his invasive cock, and shortly after her mantra of loving praise he, too, followed her over that cliff, biting down on her neck until she felt more pain than pleasure - the scent of salted copper singing her nostrils breaking through her orgasmic haze - followed by the hot burst of his semen spurting inside her. In that moment, she felt a flash of hot and cold - _He **does** love me! **He's using me.** He came to rescue me because he can't stand to be without me. **He just likes killing people and you're just another pawn to him.**_

Which was it? Why was this so confusing?

His softening cock slipped out from her as he pulled away abruptly, completely letting go of her body, making her stumble to remain standing as he looked towards the door and fastened his pants, a widening grin on his face as he laughed at the echoing screams down the hall. He looked back at her long enough she went still, confused by the flicker of a gentler smile gracing his lips, leaning over and cupping her cheek for a moment, then reaching behind him and handing her the mallet she always wielded. She said nothing, just taking it, watching as he looked over her appearance and then took off towards the door, seemingly dismissing her. _Had he brought that with him? Was it on him this entire time?_

“I always come for what’s mine, Harley. Make no mistake, you _are_ mine. I made you, didn’t I? Come along, darling, the night is young and there’s mischief afoot! I’ve always wanted to say that. Silly, eh?” He laughed manically and twirled down the hall, making her blink and watch him disappear around the corner, but not before he looked back her way, winking and pointing at the exit, then disappearing. His laughter faded into the background as she shakily began to dress, pausing long enough to look back at the footage of the two of them playing on the screen of the television still sitting on the table counter, before all the madness had taken root between them and inside herself.

Gritting her teeth, she swung the mallet – _hard -_ and shattered the screen of the TV. The audio still played, but at least she no longer saw her younger self’s face. Sighing, she stood, finished buttoning her clothing, then forced a grin, shoving the memories and feelings bubbling up back down into the depths of her psychosis, drowning out the sound of her younger self continuing to talk through the speakers. Trying on a maniacal giggle for good measure, she picked up her mallet and headed towards the door.

“Harley! Aren’t you coming?” She heard him yell down the hall.

She smiled. _It’s going to be a good day,_ she told herself. “Coming, puddin’!” _It had to be._

* * *

  
_This isn’t a love story, it’s a horror story._


End file.
